


10th of January

by Random_ag



Category: Bendy and the Ink Machine
Genre: Angst, F/M, One Of These Is Dead, Post-Canon, Update: i am a Dumbass and wrote the date wrong Twice, but my friend needs to finish batim, but theres sad, goddamn, i dont want to spoil her, thaische (pronounched ash-keh) is new, theressssss another fic? similar to this?, theyre married, what kind of fucking tags does this need
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-21
Updated: 2018-11-21
Packaged: 2019-08-27 05:47:54
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 852
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16696615
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Random_ag/pseuds/Random_ag
Summary: It's a very special day today.Close your eyes, make a wish.Breathe.





	10th of January

She wakes up in the middle of the night.

She doesn’t go back to sleep.

She prefers staring into nothing.

 

Thinking.

 

It takes what seems forever for her eyes to rise up to the clock.

A quarter past midnight.

She sits up.

 

Slowly, slowly, (there’s time. There’s still time), she rises to her feet, puts on some clothes, slips into her shoes.

Silently, silently, (they’re sleeping. Don’t wake them. They deserve rest), she takes her keys.

 

The door opens and closes with no sound.

The hinges are well oiled.

The sky is less dark than when she opened her eyes.

 

She walks.

 

The night slips away.

 

Finally, she sits on unkept grass.

She puts down a little sweet thing.

The candle lights up with the smallest flame.

 

She doesn’t lean on the concrete slab close to her.

 

God, this is her fault.

All her fault.

 

The moon has fallen.

 

She should have been there.

 

The sun is rising.

 

Her skin looks grayer than usual.

Maybe it’s the bags under her eyes.

 

The last star of the Capricorn trembles as it fades in the light, as if waving at her.

 

She bites her lip not to cry.

 

Niamh breathes.

 

She should have done more.

 

* * *

 

He wakes up to a soft beeping.

The alarm goes off (quietly. If it was louder, it would scare the boy) a little more before he shuts it down.

Five AM.

He’s alone in the bed.

 

It’s normal.

 

He stands up ad makes him way to the kitchen.

The small pastry isn’t in the fridge.

 

It’s normal.

 

The cake should stay in just a bit more.

He prepares coffee.

With a little sugar for himself.

And then with milk and acacia honey.

The way she likes it.

 

He readies the matchsticks.

 

He takes a sip.

Hot, but not scorching.

 

His earing is not as keen as his child’s, but he knows she’s back.

He waits.

 

Her coffee cools down a bit.

 

He looks at how she sits and holds the cup without drinking.

 

He’s moved past it, even though it hurts.

It hurts every year.

 

It’s almost normal.

 

Not for her.

 

Neither of them speak.

 

It took him years to be fine with everything, his emotions, himself.

He just hopes time won’t take that long to heal her, and that he’ll be able help.

Even though he doesn’t know how.

 

He holds her from behind.

 

Kim breathes.

 

They’ll get through this.

 

* * *

 

He shows the other his spider.

His dad made it out of velvet.

Holding it tight, it smells like lavander.

 

I had a friend who smells like lavander, the other says.

Do you know someone who smells like lavander?, the other asks.

 

He heard his uncle did.

And his uncle made it smell like lavander for him.

 

It’s a nice thing, the other says.

 

The other has a pair of boxes around him.

He asks what’s in them.

 

You’ll know soon, the other answers.

 

He can never see the other’s face.

It’s not important.

The ram comes.

 

He always loved the ram’s head.

A snouted skull with horn that turn around themselves.

He likes the skulls of animals.

They have such nice shapes.

He loves them.

He likes to think they had a good last night.

 

My dear, you must go, says the ram.

 

He asks why.

 

There’s sweet surprises for you outside your slumber, answers the ram.

 

He bargains another minute in there.

The ram accepts.

He asks the other which one is his day.

 

This one, the other replies.

 

It’s his too.

 

I know, the other replies.

 

A hand caresses his hair.

The ram and the other are replaced sweetly by the darkness of closed eyelids.

The covers are soft and warm.

Edgar smells of lavander.

Loud but soft voices sing to him to wake up.

Six little flames crackle slightly.

He smiles.

 

Thaische breathes.

 

He loves his parents.

 

* * *

 

It’s dark.

A little cold, too.

 

It’s not important.

 

He’s close to most of those he loves more than he’s ever been.

They’re all happy with him.

 

Because today it’s a happy day.

 

It’s nice.

And quiet.

He feels like he’s being lulled to sleep.

Such a soft feeling.

He stares up in the dark, towards the sky, dreamily.

His gaze is blocked by the dark roof above him.

 

It’s not important.

 

Today is great.

 

It’s such a lovely day.

 

The dawn was wonderful.

He can smell the sweet aroma of something homemade.

He can see a small light in the dark.

He can imagine the gifts.

 

It’s great.

 

It’s such a lovely day.

 

It makes him want to smile.

He’s tired.

He saw his friend cry a little.

Tears of joy.

 

It’s a happy day today.

 

So those are tears of joy.

His friend is so sweet.

His mother visited.

She loves him.

A lot.

He loves her too.

 

It’s a happy day today.

 

He can’t bring himself to stand up.

 

It’s not important.

 

He’s happy.

 

Very happy.

 

It’s great.

 

It’s great.

 

It’s his day.

 

It’s his day.

 

And it’s wonderful.

 

So wonderful.

 

Eska breathes, or so he would.

 

The ground above his coffin remains unmoved.


End file.
